Peach Schnapps
by infantilejoy
Summary: A one-part story in which the death of a young girl haunts what sane thoughts Daryl still has. Takes place during S5 E10. [I really wanted to break some hearts with this so if you could give me some feedback, I'd really appreciate it!]


Daryl scratched at the dried blood caked on his face as he swung his crossbow around with one arm, ready to face his next long-dead, snarling victim. The green-tipped arrow shot through the walker's eye socket with ease and the monster's blue eyes clouded over as its body fell to the ground. Another arrow. Beth's words. Another thud. The gunshot.

 _She's dead._

The last walker went down growling. Daryl lost it, bashing the butt of his crossbow into the skull of his last attacker, over, and over, and over. Finished taking his rage out on the inhuman figure, he threw the bow to his left, going too far and pulling a muscle in his left arm. It burned, and he didn't care. His memories burned more. The people he cared about, all gone; Beth, the one he went crazy on, stabbed a police officer. Beth, the one he spilled his secrets to, got shot. He should've been with her from the night she drove away. She'd have still been alive.

A hoarse scream spilled from his damaged vocal chords. Years of screaming at his drunkard father and abusive brother had taken a toll on them. The loud noise would only attract more walkers, but that didn't even cross his mind. The only thing he could think of was the people he'd lost.

 _Mom. Dad. Sophia. Lori. Merle. Beth. Carol, a thousand times. Hershel. Nameless kids who lived at the prison. Bob. Tyreese._

And somehow he felt responsible for every single one.

And he knew that days would pass. Maybe they would pass like a kidney stone, but they would pass. And nights would drag on like life drags on into death. And suicide would occur to him a million different times in a million different ways. And long hair would grow longer still, like nails on the bodies of the dead, and guns would become worn and useless like an old man's shoulders. Trees would fall like the sun from the sky and winter would come just as easily as summer had gone and things would never change.

He started the walk back to where the group had stopped on the road. He took a seat by Judith as the others went to check out approaching walkers.

Maybe there was a cure. Somewhere. But it wouldn't matter. Because an arrow was pointed straight for his brain as all these thoughts traveled like tourists throughout his mind, coming and going as they pleased. Judith stared at him from a makeshift cradle and he knew that even in death he might feel guilty for the loss of another innocent he'd left unguarded, unwatched, unsafe.

The crossbow seemed to lower itself even though he didn't remember telling his hands to put it down. The black weapon planted itself on the blacktop and he looked again at the daughter of a broken earth that had been so recklessly brought into the world.

She was cute, he supposed, but he wasn't a _pansy_ , like Merle had said so many times before, so he tucked that opinion in his back pocket.

Even in life the words of the dead still affect you.

"Hey, L'il Ass Kicker," he whispered.

Blue eyes caught his brown ones and the infant stuck three fingers in her mouth.

"Still kickin' ass? Yeah. Me too, kid."

The child, against all odds, had survived almost a year in the crumbling world, and that gave him hope. If an infant, still so susceptible to illness, still so helpless, and still so clueless, could survive, he supposed he could too.

But he still felt too responsible for Beth. Out of all the people he'd allowed to die, Beth was the closest to him and possibly the easiest to keep alive.

A shuffling noise sounded behind him and he jerked around, bow in hand and knee protectively placed in front of the box containing the girl.

Carl was there, hands up, giggling.

"Sorry, kid." Daryl sat back down. "Thought you were a walker."

"'S'okay. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You're not the scary one around here." He knew Carl must've thought he was talking about the snarling bodies walking around, but he'd meant his thoughts. To be alone with one's thoughts is as dangerous as putting your arm in the mouth of a walker and telling it to bite.

Just the same, neither walkers nor thoughts would pay any attention to what you tell them to do.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" The kid asked him. Carl had his hand in Judith's cradle, his fingers being gently bitten by the teething youngster.

"Peach schnapps."

The young face under an old sheriff's hat looked at him in confusion.

"She wanted her first drink to be peach schnapps."

Uncontrollable laughter followed and he knew that he'd be alright, but only just as safe as the ants that dodged his footfalls.


End file.
